


The Original Suspects

by firstnameagent



Series: The Fake AH Crew (& all their demons) [4]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Anxiety, F/M, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, Guns, Implied Sexual Content, Nightmares, Trans Jack, implied/referenced dysphoria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:25:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstnameagent/pseuds/firstnameagent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re the fuckin’ worst,” he says. “I swear. You’re the worst person in this whole god damn city.”</p><p>“I know,” she smiles, and it kills him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boy Meets Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you everybody for continuing to read. Seriously, all your comments and kudos and everything mean the world to me.
> 
> Note: This part and the next will focus a lot on Jack, who's a trans lady in this AU. I'm cis so if I fuck up please let me know.

“Ten thousand a month for first choice on anything new we get in stock.”

“Ten? You motherfuckers must be out of your god damn minds. Five. Final sale.”

“Oh yeah, Ramsey? Think we can’t find another boss in this city who’ll pay us ten?”

“Not one who’s still gonna be here in six months’ time, that’s for damn sure.”

Geoff grins a bright white smile at the two frustrated men sitting on the other side of his heavy oak desk. They’re clutching their weapons cache possessively: the sampler plate they brought him for their promised new supply chain. He’s been eyeing that suitcase with boredom for a half an hour. Buying guns isn’t nearly as fun as shooting them.

While they discuss it amongst themselves, Geoff grips the sides of his chair until his knuckles turn white. His entire body feels like vibrating, but he’s keeping himself still even as a fire starts to burn in his stomach, and _fuck_ one of these guys had better start talking again or—

“Eight,” the shorter one says. Geoff barks out a laugh.

“Five,” he repeats. 

“Seven and a half.”

“You’re hearing the words comin’ out of my mouth, right?”

“Burns was right,” the other one scoffs. Geoff tries not to react to the name, just files it away for future reference—they’ve been talking to Burns, too. “You’re full of yourself.”

“You’re damn right I am,” he grins. “And you boys are about to be five thousand dollars richer every month. Sounds like a win-win for us both.”

This is always the best part. The part where their eyes burn in anger and their mouths press flat, when they realize they’ve lost the negotiation and Geoff’s going to get what he wants and they’re only going to get a fraction of what they want. And they’ll— 

He lets out a gasping cough and grips the table, hard. The men look at him in confusion.

“Allergies,” he says quickly, smiling. “Now, do we have a deal?”

He extends his left hand and waits. That’s all this job is sometimes, the waiting.

Finally the less bitter one takes his hand and gives away a firm handshake. Geoff nods, thanking them both sincerely and insincerely, as they angrily swipe their suitcase from his desk and shuffle off, tails between their legs. 

The door shuts behind them and Geoff instantly lets out a shocked breath.

“You are an absolute _bitch_ ,” he gasps, and pushes back to look at Jack hidden under the crawlspace of the desk. She looks utterly pleased with herself, sitting cross-legged there and still toying with his dick even though it almost hurts at this point, but at least she’s using her god damn hands again.

She props her forearms on his thighs and pulls herself up, resting her head innocently on her arms. When she licks her lips Geoff thinks he might die.

“I know,” she says. “You did good, hun.”

“ _You did good, hun_ ,” he repeats in a mocking tone. “Christ. Remind me why I thought that would be a good idea.”

“You didn’t,” she reminds him, finally standing. She’s taller than him, always has been, but right now she looks like a monolith above him. “I asked you nicely until you said _Jesus, Jack, fine, if it’ll get you off_.” She jumps back onto the desk. “But let the record show I did give you plenty of opportunities to back out.”

He rolls his eyes, standing just so he can pull up his pants and redo his belt. “Well, did it?” he asks. “Get you off, I mean.”

She laughs. “Nah,” she admits. “Not yet. That one’s gonna get filed into the old memory, though. You trying to act like you didn’t just come in front of a couple of arms dealers? Jesus, I hardly even need you anymore, that’ll last me a while.”

“You’re the fuckin’ worst,” he says. “I swear. You’re the worst person in this whole god damn city.”

“I know,” she smiles, and it kills him.

He doesn’t know how she does it. How she owns any room she’s in so completely. How she can be on her knees under his desk sucking his dick and _she’s_ the one who holds all the power. How she manages to turn his entire fucking world upside down.

She’s been doing that since he met her though, so he should probably stop being surprised at this point. 

“C’mon,” she says. She jumps off the desk and throws an arm around his shoulder. “Time to go. The boys are gonna start thinking we’re up to something in here.”

He laughs in disbelief but she pulls him towards the door, grinning the whole way.

*

She falls asleep across his chest that night. He loves her, loves the weight of her on him, but hates the way he can’t move like this. If sleep doesn’t come to him he lays awake in that position all night, too afraid of disturbing her to move her. 

He runs his fingers through her hair; she’s started growing it out recently, and neither of them can tell if it suits her or not. More than likely she’ll cut it back to shoulder-length within a month or two, but for now she’s letting it run wild down her back or putting it into a neat top bun. She experiments with those things every once in a while; a tweak in appearance, a new look, carefully building her image piece by piece.

She is so different now than when he first knew her.

He had robbed a convenience store. Not because he needed the money but because he wanted to know what it felt like—to hold a gun at someone, to force their hand through threats. He knew it was what people did, what they usually started with, and figured he could build his way up from there if the act sat well in his stomach. 

He was 20 then. High school was a distant memory and college had never been more than a fantasy someone else held for him. Parents in a state far away. And him in Los Santos, somehow, because that’s where his all-american road trip had taken him and now he didn’t quite have enough bus money to get home and wasn’t sure he’d want to if he did.

She was there when he walked in, hiding in the corner in an oversized hoodie, and he had barely noticed her because she looked like any other scared kid in the city. She was still going by _he_ back then, still trying to squeeze herself into a person that was as ill-fitting as the clothes she wore. 

His voice had cracked when he’d started robbing the place. He thought he heard laughter in the corner, but he didn’t register it over the sound of his own heart in his ears.

And when he took the money, hands shaking and heart pounding, and walked back to his car, she followed him.

“Hey,” she called, and he turned around and pulled a fucking gun on her. “Hey!”

“Jesus, kid,” he said, lowering the gun. “What do you want?”

“I’m not a fuckin’ kid,” she responded. “And you’re not exactly a seasoned robber, are you?”

He’d been pissed off at that, so much that he couldn’t think of anything to say except “How old are you?”

She glared at him and said “Seventeen” and even though he knew it had to be a lie—she looked like she’d barely hit puberty, with no facial hair and a clear high voice—he didn’t call her out.

“Well, what the hell do you want?” he repeated.

“I want,” she said, nodding at the money and the gun, “to help you out with this robbery bullshit.”

It had started there, then. At the time, he didn’t understand how it had ever worked, but looking back it was obvious as anything. She needed money and a place to stay and he needed someone to keep him grounded somehow. She would walk in, case some place looking like an innocent if lost little kid, and then report everything she’d seen in mind-boggling detail. He would storm in with a gun, they’d split the money on booze and candy bars respectively, and they’d go home to sleep in the cheapest motel they could find that day.

He only found out two months later that she was really fourteen and that she’d left home because her parents were “shit at being parents” and that was all she’d say. He found out she was damn good with a gun, better than he ever was. He found out he couldn’t imagine doing this without her, this sharp mouthed little kid at his side. 

(He found out four months in that she felt “wrong”, and when he asked what that meant she just shrugged and said “I don’t know, just wrong. Like this isn’t me.” He’d chalked it up to teenage bullshit until eight months in he found her sobbing in the bathroom and he coaxed the rest of it out of her in words she couldn’t fully explain or understand. And then he’d stolen her a computer, let her research, watched her break down crying again but this time it was relief and this time it tore through his heart knowing how long she’d had to wait for this.)

Nothing more than chaste happened between them until she was 24 and he was 30 and they were on their way to a party to scope out the venue it was being held in. She walked into his room to ask him to zip up her dress and he saw her, happy and bright and powerful as all hell, and as soon as he touched her dress he knew they weren’t going to make it to that party.

And that had been ten years ago now. He looks down into her face now and sees the person who made him. The person who told him, jokingly, he should start a crew. The person who had helped him when he’d taken her seriously.

When he met her he was nobody. Now he’s worth millions but sometimes, next to her, he still feels like nobody—he could disappear and the crew would take a hit but the operation would stay running, the city would keep turning, because she could and would take the reins and keep it running as it always had. 

If she was gone he would _let_ the city crumble.


	2. Girl Loves Boy

He wakes up with lungs tight, fists clenched, fighting his way out of a nightmare ringing with gunfire. Her hand is on his forehead before he’s fully conscious, smoothing him back down into the pillow.

“Hey,” she murmurs. “You good?”

He takes in a shuddering breath, but he nods. She presses a gentle kiss to his temple, then rolls over and stretches out on the bed. She doesn’t expect him to move with her first thing in the morning.

“You wanna talk about it?” she asks. He lifts himself up on his elbows slowly, feels his back crack. Sometimes he forgets how long he’s been at this.

“Nah,” he says. He rubs a hand over his face, smoothing out whatever expression made its way onto his face. 

Jack nods and walks over to the dresser. She starts sorting through clothes as he watches her, amazed by how much time she can spend on something like this. He’d still just own six identical black suits if she and the rest of the crew hadn’t mocked him for it. 

“Not too busy today,” she notes, pretending it’s casual. He can hear the soothing tone underneath it though—the _you can relax_ , the _take it easy_. He smiles as he makes his way over to the dresser, wraps his arms around her, and kisses her neck.

*

She’s right, as it turns out. They don’t have anything planned—no meetings for him, no jobs to run for the rest of the crew. Michael and Gavin are out of the penthouse all day doing God knows what (“Each other, probably,” Ray had muttered), which brings an unsettling silence over the house. Ryan and Ray are locked in a bitter game of Halo, occasional _oh, fuck you_ s ricocheting off the walls. 

It feels almost normal.

Geoff does what he always does on quiet days—look over what they’ve got and what they need to do next. He has their books spread out in front of him, even though that’s a B-team job and Jack’s the only one of the crew proper who understands all the numbers. He just likes having them there for reference, especially with her at his side. What he’s paying attention to is mostly his map of the city that looks more like a sketchbook. 

On the map itself: Red circles around warehouses they control, blue circles around ones they don’t but would like to. Red lines depicting safe routes out of the city. Black stars over potential targets. Black X’s over targets they’ve already hit. Question marks over targets they might hit again. 

Around the margins: very detailed drawings of dicks. The words _R & R connection_ in Ray’s handwriting with _GAAAAAY_ written under it in Michael’s. _X-Ray and Vav_ along with a few lines of a theme song Gavin’s been dreaming up for months. A drawing of a waffle. 

Geoff tries to feel calm looking at this map. He really does. He tries to be the cool and confident mob boss with a plan and a direction. But then the drawings and the notes creep in around the edges and he starts thinking about what he’s really doing when he marks a target. Telling Michael to rig up enough explosives to blow the face off a building. Sending Ryan with a knife to a gunfight. Pointing the barrel of Ray’s sniper rifle at the police department. Throwing Gavin into the middle of a hostage situation as bait. Putting Jack in the pilot’s seat of a plane with military-grade helicopters after it. 

And what’s he doing, sitting back and watching it all happen? What’s he going to do when the explosives don’t blow, when the guns jam, when the plane crashes? 

“Pink or purple?”

Geoff starts at the sound of her voice. He frowns in confusion and looks down at Jack’s hand, two bottles of nail polish clutched between her fingers.

“What?” he asks, looking from the bottles to her face and back again.

Jack keeps the nail polish held out steady. “You’re getting anxious,” she says in a low, gentle voice. “Your eyes are doing that thing where the go all glossy and you stop listening. So I’m asking you a mundane question to ground you. Now. Pink or purple?”

“Oh,” he chokes out, and yeah, now he can feel his heart going in his chest and the shaking that’s taking over his hands. “Pink.”

“Hmm,” Jack nods. “Nice choice.”

She splays her fingers out over his thigh, uncaps the polish, and starts gently painting her nails in full view of him. He leans his head back on the couch and watches her, staying motionless through the entire procedure.

*  
Michael and Gavin eventually come home. Ray beats Ryan at Halo, to nobody’s surprise. And Jack and Geoff go to bed together.

Some things always change; some things never do.

Their mouths melt together as Jack swings her legs over Geoff. She settles down on his upper thighs, pressing down with all her weight, keeping him as close as she can manage. He starts creeping his hands up under her dress, but she pushes him away; not yet. Wait for it. 

But the way she kisses him, the way she knows what’s happening in his head before he does, the way she knows when he needs her to stay with him from sun up to sundown—

He’s never been a patient man. 

Geoff pulls away from the kiss, hazy-eyed and lightheaded, and whispers, “Marry me.”

Jack laughs, nodding, before she catches the ferocity in Geoff’s eyes and her face settles down into something like shock. “Oh, shit,” she says. “You’re serious.”

“Of course I am,” he says, and kisses her again as she blinks, stunned. “Marry me.”

“You’re drunk,” she retorts immediately, even though they’ve been together all evening and his eyes are clear and he knows his mouth tastes more like her than liquor.

“I’m not,” he says.

She rocks her hips a little, tries to distract him. He holds her steady. “You’re still gonna wake up tomorrow and not mean it,” she mutters, digging her fingers into his collar. She tries to play it off as a joke, but he sees the way she chews at her lip. He knows he’s asked her this before, knows one of both of them has laughed it off, knows he always takes it back. 

He looks down at her left hand and imagines a diamond perched on it, fit snug between her perfectly painted fingers, curled around the grip of a gun.

“No,” he says fiercely. “I’ll fucking do it tonight, if you want. I mean it. Marry me.”

She hesitates. He feels her hesitate, beneath his palms. Some people, people who’d known each other for less time, might read it as too little love. He knows it’s not that. He knows she only wants to make sure he’s not going to hesitate when it really counts. And he knows he’s sick of doing that.

“This isn’t a declaration of monogamy, I hope,” she says, and he grins.

“Nah,” he admits. “Can keep our current arrangement.”

“And you’re sure you want to make our taxes even more complicated?”

Geoff groans, rolls his eyes. “Jesus, just say no already.”

“I’m not,” she insists with a laugh. “I’m just being practical.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grins. It’s one of the things he loves about her, out of the endless list he’s cultivated over the years. “Taxes are all fake anyway, yeah? What’s one more wrench.”

“Fair enough.” But she’s still hesitating, and it’s not because she doesn’t believe him anymore; he sees the shift in her eyes, the resumed chewing on her bottom lip. He runs his hands up and down her arms until she feels like she can say it, and when she does, it’s not even an entire question. “My birth certificate.”

He feels that familiar hot coal of anger in his chest. “Fuck your birth certificate,” he spits out. _And fuck your parents, and fuck the law._ “You think we can’t make a new one? With the right shit on it? Bet I fucking own the county clerk’s office, anyway, let me look at my books.”

He feels the shuddering breath melt out of her, the way she’s trying to hide the excitement at that idea. Not that he hasn’t pitched it to her before, but she’s always said it doesn’t matter, or there was something bigger to attend to, or any other excuse. He thinks maybe she just doesn’t want to focus on it being out there in the world, floating around somewhere, even long enough to destroy it. 

She still hasn’t said anything—her voice would probably wobble if she did—so he leans into her ear and murmurs, “Nice crisp white paper, seal of Los Santos and everything. Jacqueline Pattillo. Yeah?”

“Gonna knock a couple years off my age while you’re at it?” she mutters back, kissing the skin behind his ear. He laughs and takes her face in his hands again.

“Anything for the new Mrs. Ramsey.”

She punches him hard in the shoulder. “You’re out of your god damn mind if you think I’m taking your last name.”

“Oh yeah?” he says as the heat in his chest builds and builds as he realizes she’s not denying it anymore, not backing out, that he’s all in and so is she and it’s happening. “You wanna fight me about it?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Bring it on, old man.”

He grabs at her wrists and she digs her knees into his stomach and they roll, flipping off the bed, throwing false punches and kicks that intentionally miss until they’re tired out and all the swings melt into gentle touches and the curses and taunts turn into _God, I love you, I love you, I love you._


End file.
